Phantom
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: Sam is a wax statue in the hospital bed, a pale, silent, still imitation of himself.


**Phantom**

"_It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything."  
― Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club _

XXX

Dean pushes the heels of his palms into his raw eyes, rubbing until bursts of light explode behind his eyelids. It's 5am and the hospital is almost eerily quiet, only the soft murmur of rooms filled with sleeping people, the occasional squeak of a shoe to keep him company.

He's not technically allowed to be here but he just couldn't leave Sammy to find out from some stranger, or worse, alone, should he wake up while Dean was gone. Dean needs to be here. He drops his hands and lets them dangle between his legs, elbows resting on his knees. He breathes out a sigh, long and heavy, and inspects his brother for any signs of waking.

Sam is a wax statue in the hospital bed, a pale, silent, still imitation of himself. He's hooked up to what must be a thousand different tubes and wires, measuring his oxygen levels and heart rate, dispensing antibiotics and saline and painkillers. The faint flush of Sam's cheeks is all that's left of the fever that raged through him while the infection was threatening to take his life, before Dean told the surgeons to do whatever they had to do to save him. Chest bared to allow for the electrodes that connect to the heart monitor, the thin white sheet bunches at Sam's waist and Dean's eyes are constantly, unwillingly drawn to the way the sheet sits _wrong_ at the end of the bed, where there should be two lumps for two legs and instead there's only one.

XXX

"D'n?"

The voice is hoarse and strained but Dean would recognize it anywhere. It pulls him from his half-doze like they're connected by a shrinking length of string. He blinks his eyes open and the memories slam into his brain, where they are, why they're here. He thinks he flinches with the force of the realization. This is the moment he's been desperately waiting for and silently dreading.

Sam is awake, his eyes on Dean, foggily aware. He hasn't noticed yet.

"Hey," Dean finds his voice. "Hey, how're you feeling?"

Sam blinks slowly, thinking it over. "Mm, drugged? Morphine?"

Dean nods. "You got the good stuff, bro." Oh God, what is he going to say? He's rehearsed at least a dozen options in his head and none of them seem any good. How exactly are you supposed to break this kind of news?

Sam's dark eyes roam the room lazily, taking in the dull green curtains, the humming equipment at his bedside. Dean grabs his hand to draw his attention before he starts focusing on himself and freaks out. He can't put it off. He has to do this now.

"Listen, Sammy, there's something I have to tell you."

Even under the influence, Sam recognizes the tone and his eyes lock onto Dean's with fresh awareness and concern. The hand Dean's holding returns the grip. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, Sammy," Dean says, his chest lurching sickeningly all of a sudden. His throat is threatening to close up like it's clamping down on the words in a desperate attempt to turn them into lies by silencing them. He forces himself to swallow and clears his throat, leaning closer. He can't lose it now.

'What is it?" Sam asks anxiously, and Dean can tell that he's failing miserably in his attempts to hold himself together.

"Okay," he says, and then flounders for something to come after it. He realizes that he's holding onto Sam's hand much tighter than he should but Sam doesn't seem bothered by it, just worried, bordering on scared, "Okay. Uh, you... you were pretty messed up when you got here, remember?"

Sam frowns nervously. "Kinda?" he offers.

"Before I tell you, you need to know... it's gonna be okay. We're gonna work together and get through this." Sam's eyes widen in surprise and Dean sees the rush of panic that floods his irises. Damn it, he's freaking the kid out now, doing this all wrong. He should have hit the call button and got a doctor to do this, someone who knew how to break this kind of news. _Just tell him_.

"They couldn't save your leg." It comes out in a rush. "They tried but the bones were crushed and the infection was getting bad, really bad" - he shudders at the memory - "and then it came down to it or you so they, they did what they had to do to save you."

He stops to take a breath and watches Sam try to catch up.

"What..." Sam starts faintly, then it seems to hit him and he's trying to sit up, hands fumbling for the sheet.

"Take it easy, kiddo," Dean says, abandoning his chair in favour of cramming in beside Sam on the bed. Careful of the wires and shit, he wraps an arm around Sam's shoulders for support as his shaky hand draws back the sheet.

He hears Sam's sharp intake of breath and has to force himself not to do the same. He hasn't exactly had much time to get use to this. It's hard to wrap his head around it. A week ago, everything was normal – as normal as things got for them – and now...

The swath of white bandages go up to mid-thigh. The leg ends just above the knee... where the knee use to be. The doctors say Sam's a perfect candidate for a prosthetic, young and fit, when the wound heals enough. They say that, eventually, Sam will walk again, could run if he got a prosthetic designed for that, and they say it like it's awesome, like Sam will have his life back, and it _is_ awesome, sure. At least Sam won't be stuck in a wheelchair. But the doctors don't know what Dean knows.

Dean knows that hunting is going to be impossible.

"Oh my God," Sam says, staring wide-eyed at the stump.

"Everything's going to be okay," Dean says, a little too desperately, squeezing Sam's shoulders gently. "Don't worry, Sammy, we're going to work this out."

"Oh my God," Sam says again, like he hasn't even hear Dean. Maybe he hasn't. Maybe his blood is rushing too loud, his heartbeat thumping in his ears the way Dean's did when they told him. Even now, the sight fills his mind with a static of panic and denial, like surely he'll blink and Sam's leg will be back where it's supposed to be.

"Sam," Dean starts, with no idea how to continue, but he's interrupted by Sam leaning over to throw up on the floor by the bed.

He probably should have seen that coming.

XXX

Dean finds a little house to rent and fashions a sturdy ramp to cover the two front steps, seeing as Sam will be in a wheelchair for a while. He finds a job, an actual nine-to-five job, at this tiny coffee shop that somehow does good business and is surprised to learn that he's actually really good at making coffee, even the fancy ones that Sam likes.

By the time Sam gets out of the hospital, Dean has scraped together enough furniture from thrift stores to get by; a couple of beds, a couch and even a TV, a bookshelf and a couple of boxes filled with books that Sam will hopefully like, a small dining table and a couple of sets of drawers. Honestly, he looks around the house on the day he has finally finished setting everything up and has what is totally not a panic attack, just a mild freak out, because suddenly he has a house and a job and he'll have to think about bills and buy groceries and this is the _end _of hunting because Sam just lost a _leg_.

But when it's time, he pushes Sam's wheelchair around the house and smiles and sounds suitably enthusiastic as he points out all the little attractions. He left the books in the boxes because he's sure Sam will have some particular order he wants to put them in. The benches and cupboards in the kitchen are low enough that Sam shouldn't have a problem reaching things, and there's even a little garden out back where they could grow things, if they wanted to.

"So what do you think?" he asks finally, letting the wheelchair come to a rest in the middle of the sitting room. He tries to make the question sound casual but Sam's silence during the tour makes it seem strained and uncomfortable.

"It's fine," Sam murmurs without conviction.

Biting his lip, Dean rounds the chair and crouches down to eye-level. "I know this wasn't exactly in our plans, and the place isn't perfect but... things are going to get better, Sammy, I promise."

Sam just drops his face into his hands and starts to cry.

XXX

Dean hates leaving Sam alone. Things are bad enough when he's home. Sam mostly stays in his room, silent and unreachable. When Dean insists, he showers and feeds himself mechanically. Occasionally he'll venture into the sitting room and stare blankly at the TV, lost in thought and uninterested in conversation. He doesn't touch the boxes of books.

Dean gives it a month before he says anything. Obviously, this will take time and grieving and adjustment so he's not going to pounce on the kid for moping around the house all day while he's still figuring out how to deal.

But Sam doesn't deal. It's like he's just _stopped_. The weeks pass without any improvement in his mood, it might even be getting worse, and seriously, this is tearing Dean apart.

"What do you think about the garden?" he asks casually one day after work, the rich smell of coffee clinging to his clothes. "You want to go out there this weekend and plant some stuff? I was thinking some veges or something – never really saw myself as the kind of guy who grows flowers, though if you want to...?"

He leaves the question hanging in the air between them, watching Sam's face for a single spark of interest. There's nothing.

Sam's sitting on the couch, absentmindedly pushing his wheelchair back and forth with his remaining foot. He gives Dean a one-shouldered shrug, his gaze not leaving the TV, even though Dean knows he's not watching it.

Dean barely restrains a sigh. "Or we could do out, look around town?"

"My leg hurts," Sam says flatly, dismissively.

"Want some painkillers?" Dean's already halfway to standing.

"No," Sam shakes his head bitterly. "They don't work. There's nothing there to hurt anyway."

Dean pauses. He doesn't want to push if Sam really is hurting but he's suspicious that it's just an excuse. "What if we just went for coffee?" he asks finally, trying to compromise. "The girls I work with want to meet you and we wouldn't have to stay long. Some fresh air will be good for you. It's not far."

"I don't feel like going out," Sam mutters.

Dean can't help it now. He does sigh, running an agitated hand through his short hair. "Sam, you haven't left the house since we moved in here. You can't just... hide."

Sam rolls his eyes, as if Dean's being stupid. "Who says I'm hiding?"

"I do." Dean drops back down onto the other side of the couch, ducking down to attempt eye contact when Sam drops his head. "I know this is hard, but it's not the end of the world. Life doesn't just stop when something shit happens, you know that. There are still so many things..." 

He trails off when Sam shrugs again.

"Well, what's something you want to do?" Dean asks in desperation. "Anything you want, we'll do it."

"I want you to leave me alone," Sam says quietly, slumping further into himself. "I don't want to go out or do the garden or... anything. I just want to be left alone."

XXX

Dean does leave him alone, for now – maybe the kid just needs more time to come to grips with everything – but he leaves the crutches they got from the hospital leaning against the couch before he goes to work the next morning. Maybe Sam will use them and feel better just by getting out of the wheelchair for a bit, by being upright.

His shift drags. He has to remind himself that they need the money just to stop himself from rushing home. Thing is, during the dark, quiet hours of the night, it occurred to him that Sam might just be depressed enough to...

He doesn't want to think about it but he can't stop. He spends hours arguing with himself in his head. _Sam wouldn't do that... probably not... maybe he would – God, would he? No, he wouldn't_...

Monica, the manager of Cozy Coffee, listens attentively as he explains the reason behind his distraction after he nearly spills coffee on a customer. He feels guilty, like he's going behind Sam's back, but he needs someone to talk to or else he's going to drive himself crazy, and in the time he's worked here, he's learned that Monica is trustworthy and a good listener. He likes her. She's a couple of years older than him but could pass as a teenager; smooth olive skin, dark hair that curls around her ears and a gorgeous smile. If things were different, he might be interested in a relationship that was more than just friends but as it is, his mind is full of Sam.

When he finishes unloading, Monica surprises him by nodding her head thoughtfully.

"I have an idea," she says.

XXX

Dean is cautiously optimistic as he carries Monica's warm, wriggly idea through the door, hidden inside his jacket, a few hours later.

But the house is quiet, the usual drone of the TV absent. He drops his keys on the kitchen counter and hurries to the sitting room. A glance tells him that the crutches are unused, still in the same place he left them, and Sam's not here. Dread builds in the pit of his stomach, heavy and sickening. The internal argument starts up again. _He might_...

He didn't. It only takes a few panicked seconds of searching to find Sam, unharmed and alive. He's in bed, still dressed in the white t-shirt he went to sleep in last night – probably the same gray sweatpants too – awake and staring blankly at the wall across the room.

Dean takes a deep breath to calm himself. Monica's idea squirms against his side.

"Dude, did you even get up today?" he asks from the doorway.

Sam's eyes slide towards him, then back to the wall. "Got sick of watching TV," he mutters. Dean doesn't see how this is an improvement. He hates seeing Sam like this.

"I got you something," he says, hoping for at least vague interest. Sam just ignores him. "Don't get too excited," he says sarcastically and unzips his jacket to let the furry bundle out as he steps into the room.

"Here," he says, placing it down on the bed.

Sam glances at it apathetically, then does a double take, his eyes widening in surprise. "It's a puppy."

"Good observation skills, Sammy."

Sam rolls over and sits up. "Where did it come from?"

"Monica, my manager, volunteers at the animal shelter. She thought you might want some company while I'm at work and this little girl needed a home. Win/win, right?" Dean can't read Sam's face but he's sure this is a good idea. Sam loves dogs. This will help, he knows it. He could have kissed Monica when she suggested he take the young golden retriever.

The puppy pads her way up the bed and climbs into Sam's lap, whining a little in obvious need of attention. A tiny smile plays on Sam's lips as he reaches out to scratch the pup behind her ears, and Dean feels a warm wave of relief wash through him. This is going to work.

"She's cute," Sam says quietly, his fingers moving cautiously over a small gap in her fur. Dean grins with a little more confidence. He sits down on the edge of Sam's bed and gives the puppy a pat himself.

"Yeah, she looks like a Winchester alright. See the scar?" It cuts a diagonal line over the top of the puppy's head. "She was abandoned, probably attacked by another dog. But she's a survivor, you know? Monica said she was probably on her own for a while before she was brought into the shelter, but she toughed it out."

Sam strokes the puppy silently for a while, shoulders slumped, his dark hair falling over his eyes. Dean knows he hasn't missed the message hidden in Dean's words, the meaning of taking this particular dog.

"This is hard," he says finally. "I don't know how to do this."

"So we'll figure it out," Dean says earnestly, jumping on Sam's first attempt at talking about their new life. "Hell, you think I know what I'm doing? I'm just making this up as I go along."

Sam huffs a small, not quite real, laugh. "You're doing fine. Who would've though, you're awesome at being normal and I suck at it."

"These aren't exactly ideal circumstances for you, kiddo," Dean says sympathetically.

Sam's eyes flicker down to the uneven sheets. The puppy curls up in his lap and yawns adorably before falling asleep.

"This is the end," Sam says quietly, "Of everything."

"Not everything," Dean disagrees. "Just hunting. You know, we can do anything we want now."

A crease forms on the bridge of Sam's nose as he looks at Dean doubtfully. "You want to work in a coffee shop and take care of your amputee brother?"

Dean shrugs. He doesn't know what he wants yet. "So we need a period of adjustment, take some time to figure that out. We don't even have to stay here if you don't want to. We could move. I could get a new job. _You_ could get a job, or study, or whatever. I'm just saying, this isn't the end, Sammy. It's the beginning."

XXX

Dean returns home from work with tentative hope the next day. At the least, he feels better knowing that Sammy wasn't completely alone while he was gone. At the most...

He crosses to the sitting room doorway and has to do a double take because Sam is _smiling_. A proper, honest to God, happy smile. He's tied knots in a sock and is sitting on the floor, one leg curled under him, the stump carefully stretched out in front, playing tug-of-war with the puppy, who growls playfully as she tries to pull the sock out of Sam's hand with her teeth. Sam has showered today, soft hair curling at his shoulders, dressed in clean clothes, and he looks more alive than Dean has seen him since before the accident.

"Looks like she's settling in okay," Dean says after soaking up the sight.

Sam looks up at him. "We need to get her some toys," he says as his eyes return to the dog. "Your sock had to make the supreme sacrifice."

"Doing it's duty." Dean nods approvingly, a smile of his own playing on his lips.

Sam reaches out a hand and pulls his wheelchair closer, letting go of the sock. The puppy immediately leaps on her prize and pins it to the floor with her tiny paws, one end still clamped between her teeth. Sam pauses to give her a fond scratch behind one ear before awkwardly pushing himself up on his remaining leg and settling himself down in the chair.

"We should go now, before the pet store closes."

It takes a moment for Dean to process the '_we_' in Sam's statement and then another moment where he just stares at Sam like an idiot until the kid rolls his eyes a little self-consciously.

"You were right last night. I did some thinking instead of just..." He shrugs. He's not smiling anymore but the blanket of grief hasn't spread back over his features. He looks determined, if a little nervous, avoiding Dean's eye by staring at the dog. "I guess there's still stuff to do, and I don't want to just lie in bed all day so... We should get her some toys."

"Yeah," Dean agrees when he finds his voice. He owes Monica flowers or chocolates or something (_everything_). "Awesome."

Abandoning the sock, the puppy noses at Sam's ankle before sitting back on her hind legs and whining plaintively. Sam's smile is back when he reaches down to pick up the little ball of fur and places her carefully on his lap, where she immediately perches herself on Sam's thighs like a watchdog, big brown eyes alert, ears pricked to attention. It's like she can sense that Sam's in need of protection right now, that he's vulnerable, and she thinks she's just the dog to do it.

He shakes his head, impressed, and gives the dog a pat, already certain they'll make a great team. Sam waves off his wordless offer of a push and wheels himself to the door instead. Dean pauses in the kitchen to retrieve his keys and, for the first time, he thinks he actually believes in what he's been telling Sammy all along.

They're going to be okay.

**END**


End file.
